bad hair daze
by quietgal
Summary: England had spent the majority of her life throwing away all traces of femininity. She found that she looked lanky and awkward in most feminine clothing. But she quickly became acquainted with the worst enemy of all women: bad hair days. The relief was unlike any other when she realized she didn't have to survive the struggles of her hair alone.


England had never been very good at being feminine. In fact, it seemed she spent the majority of her life throwing away any traces of femininity; it wasn't easy being a female nation when female humans were barely taken as seriously as men, even in the modern day. So expressing herself as a woman was a fairly new thing. After hundreds of years as practically posing as a man, dresses and ribbons were all new things to her.

She tried to find a nice-looking style, she really did. But it was so hard to find nice clothes these days! All the dresses on sale were so short, practically just barely past her hips. She found that she looked lanky and awkward in most feminine clothing. But she quickly became acquainted with the worst enemy of all women: bad hair days.

Her hair was long, much too long for someone who'd never had to deal with long hair before. It easily became frizzy. It curled in all the wrong places. To deal with it, she attempted a trip to the salon. She could have sworn they lit her hair on fire with the strange iron they were using. The treatment only helped for a few days, so she didn't go back. She instead chose to stop caring. She put her hair in tight pigtails every day and, if she couldn't go to an event in military uniform, stuck to a few outfits that worked for her.

But then she started dating America. America, who woke up every day with a significant lack of bedhead and dark circles under his eyes. America, whose bright blue eyes and Hollywood white teeth shined at any given moment. America, who ate possibly 50 million hamburgers a day but never gained a ounce of fat on top of those washboard abs. America, who didn't have to work at all to be beautiful. And suddenly, England had to try much harder - what kind of reputation would she have if everyone thought _America_ was _settling_ for her?

The clothes were relatively easy. She simply consulted a personal stylist. They bought all the clothes for her, and she put them on. Easy. But hair: that was a different matter. They could give her all the products and treatments in the world, but that didn't change the fact that England was left to her own devices every day in the shower.

It was a rainy morning in London, as it always seemed to be, when England could barely take it anymore. Her hair was so, so tangled: she could barely run her fingers through it. She refused to go in the shower with hair this knotted - she had quickly learned that it never worked out in her favor. But there was no way she couldn't shower today. America had somehow convinced her to go clubbing with him last night - like they were teenagers! And something _stupid_ inside of her made her agree.

She eyed her partner jealously from her seat at the edge of her bed. He was still sleeping. He was Sleeping fucking Beauty, with his glowing skin and long blonde eyelashes. He probably didn't even have a hangover. Lucky brat. England wasn't sure how long she sat there, practically tearing out her hair with how rough she was combing it, before America sat up.

"Mm, babe?" He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "What're you doin'...?"

England groaned. "Untangling my hair."

America stared at her sleepily. "... Why?"

"Because I have to shower, idiot," England muttered, continuing to pick at the knots with her fingers.

"What time is it?" America mumbled, picking up his glasses from the bedside table and putting them on. England didn't bother answering: she knew he could read the alarm clock. America soon got up, clumsily stumbling around to find and put on his boxers. He went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

England pouted, upset that America had left her alone. The moron could never tell if she was upset. She collapsed on the bed, closing her eyes for a moment until she heard the bathroom door re-open.

"Sit up." America's soft, tired voice. He sat next to her as she did so, now sleepy herself. He pressed a soft kiss to her neck. "Lemme brush your hair for you, honey."

She couldn't help but give a small smile as she angled herself to make things easier for America. She soon felt the soft tug of a brush pulling on her scalp. It was just the perfect amount of pressure that she couldn't resist closing her eyes again.

"Tell me if anything hurts," America murmured into her ear. England nodded.

By the time America was done, her hair was perfectly knotless. For once, England could tell America knew what she was thinking; he could tell how much she liked the feeling of her hair being brushed. He kept brushing for a while longer than he needed to, kissing her neck and shoulders all the while. When he finally put down the brush, England turned to him with a tired smile.

"Ready for your shower?" America asked, his voice still quiet with sleep. England smiled and gave a short nod.

"Join me?" Her own quiet voice asked. He smiled back at her, taking her hand gently. They stood together. He kissed her fingers lovingly as she led him to the bathroom.


End file.
